


names changed to protect the innocent

by spock



Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Autumn, Courtship, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gay Chicken (Doesn't Work When One Party Is Gay and The Other Is Too), Hurt/Comfort, Loyalty, M/M, Rare Pairings, Ridiculous Disambiguation, Stumbling into a Relationship, Trope Subversion/Inversion, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-07 18:56:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16414013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/pseuds/spock
Summary: Indulging the Chevalier is a means to an end.





	names changed to protect the innocent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wearestardust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearestardust/gifts).



Dark trespasses onto the grounds, its boldness growing as winter approaches, blanketing all that their King seeks so desperately to illuminate. Fabien does not mind; the shadows have always done well by him. 

Tucked away in a corner, the Chevalier looks out of place amongst the beetles and snails quietly making their way across the garden. It’s unusual to find him among anything less than the glittering pleasures of the palace. Fabien steps further into the trees that Chevalier is hiding amongst and sees that there is a man kneeling at his feet, an accessory that Fabien has learned to expect whenever the Chevalier is alone for more than a few moments. 

Fabien’s eyes must flash in the darkness, for he knows that his steps make no sound, and yet still Chevalier’s eyes flit to his, meeting across the minor chasm between them. 

“No,” Chevalier says, with feeling. “No, Fabien, not again.” 

The man giving shelter to the Chevalier's most base of appendages startles. Chevalier is quick to grab hold of his hair, an unkind grip that allows for no further movement. Even in the dark, Fabien can make out the light coloring of the man’s hair, the unfashionably short length, and deduces that it must be that Arnaud boy from one of the families up north, recently arrived at court not just that week. 

Chevalier is nothing if not a fast worker in these matters, though he fails to exert such effort towards little else. 

“Perhaps if you kept better company,” Fabien begins to say, though Chevalier speaks oven him. 

“Why now, Fabien, in this moment, and not any other? One might begin to think that you possess something of a fetish.”

A sneer works itself onto Fabien’s face. He has had enough of this foolishness. “If you have not sated yourself by now, you will not tonight. Come, I have questions for you to answer to.”

* * *

“I see you haven’t redecorated since the last time I visited,” Chevalier says. The venom in his tone could strip paint from the walls, were they adorned with any.

Fabien last interviewed Chevalier in the service of His Majesty The King a fortnight ago, as had been the case with the interview preceding that, and the one even prior still. With each passing conversation the Chevalier has grown more insolent. Fabien cannot tell if this is a positive development or not. 

In all his years under the King, he has never had what could be described as a rapport with one of his agents — nevermind that Chevalier is oftentimes more suspect than anything else — and often wonders if the simmering-yet-toothless animosity between the Chevalier and himself might qualify as such an understanding. 

“Perhaps if I were to have some guidance.” Fabien eyes about the room in which he conducts his interviews and tries to imagine it looking anything but as it is, if only to humor the Chevalier. “When do you suppose you’ll have the King’s word on how torture within his domain should be properly outfitted?” 

“Are you insinuating that I am failing in my duties?” The Chevalier’s voice is as stern as Fabien has ever heard it, but his face betrays him. His smirk is decidedly more amused than it is incensed. 

“I insinuate no such thing,” Fabien says, his own voice as even-toned and mild as it ever is. He has far more control than to allow for anything but. “I am saying it.”

The Chevalier lets out a rather indigent shout, smirk incensed once more. Fabien can’t quite bite back his smile for a moment — but only a moment, just. It is a consideration of seconds before his face is blank again, as befitting a man of his station. 

“Come now.” Fabien opens the book at his desk and grabs his pen, dipping it into the inkwell to the right of him and scraping off the excess. “What have you learned in the time since we last spoke? There seem few pots that remain untouched by your fingers, if rumor is to be believed.”

“Come now,” Chevalier says. Fabien is mildly unnerved at how well the Chevalier can mimic his voice. “Nevermind _that_ , let's speak more about these rumors you’ve inquired about. I’m sure there’s far more interesting talk to be found about my fingers; what have you heard?” 

Fabien frowns. He is losing the upper hand and does not care for it one bit. “Stop this foolishness,” he says. 

“Who’s being a fool?” Chevalier asks, his voice turned sultry. Fabien can do little more than watch as Chevalier rises from his seat and walks the relatively short distance until he’s stood beside where Fabien sits on the other side. 

Chevalier takes a loose handful of Fabien’s hair between his fingers. 

Fabien isn’t one to be cowed so easily. “This seems so far removed from your earlier technique, Chevalier.” 

“You seem the type to prefer a gentler touch, M. Marchal.”

Fabien scoffs, refusing to take the Chevalier’s entirely newfound reverence towards Fabien’s station with any seriousness — perhaps, too, at his insinuation that Fabien could possibly lean to gentleness at all, in any aspect of his life. 

Chevalier uses the opportunity to join their mouths. 

It’s been something of a while since Fabien has last been kissed. There is a part of him that wants to close to his eyes, though he suppresses it. The Chevalier is good at what he does, most notably with his tongue, and, were Fabien close enough to anyone or so inclined to discuss such matters at all even if he were, he would admit that it is likely the best kiss he has had in his life. 

Chevalier’s eyes peek open. When he spies that Fabien is looking at him, he opens them fully. They stare at one another as Chevalier leads their kiss this way and that, Fabien acquiescing, but never so much as to actually insinuate that he is an active party in this. 

The door opens, and the Chevalier pays it no mind, continuing on with this kiss of his. Fabien follows suit. 

“Hm,” Bontemps says, where he stands at the door. Fabien knows he will have to address this later. Still, better Bontemps than some lower-level guard sent to fetch Fabien, unable to keep observances to himself as well as Bontemps most certainly will be. The last thing Fabien needs is for court gossip to turn to the topic of himself. “His Majesty wishes an audience with you.”

There is a moment where only the muffled, slick sounds of their kissing fill the room. The Chevalier moans lightly, something he hadn’t done when they were alone, and pulls back. There’s a hesitation, and he dips back in quickly, pressing one last kiss to Fabien’s lips before standing tall once more. 

“Another time then, my dearest Fabien,” Chevalier says. Fabien uses the back of his hand to dry his mouth as he watches the Chevalier perform his show. “Duty calls.”

“Not you,” Bontemps says it without any semblance of humor, good or otherwise. 

Fabien is surprised the man bothered to entertain the Chevalier with a correction at all. 

“Best not keep him waiting.” Fabien stands. Chevalier’s hand is still loosely threaded around Fabien’s hair. He drops it when Fabien levels him with a look.

* * *

Later arrives sooner than Fabien expected.

Bontemps takes care to ask after Fabien’s dalliances with the Chevalier not whilst they’re alone on the long walk to the King’s apartment, but in the presence of the King himself. 

Fabien tucks his notebook away and faces Bontemps’ accusations, though he directs his reply to the King. “The Chevalier was attempting to tease me, I think, sire.” 

“Tease what out of you, is my concern,” the King asks.

“The Chevalier is no spy,” Fabien says, thinking he might as well get the most pressing answer out first. “I imagine that it amuses him to try to get a rise out of me. The information he provides, though I am certain he fails to perceive the full scope of it as such, is good. Moreover, his service to your Majesty has served my mission quite well. I indulge him to stay in his good favor.” 

It’s the most he’s spoken in a turn. Why, Fabien wonders, must he always expend most of his words to the Chevalier, or in the midst of speaking of the man? It’s unnerving, but nothing that Fabien can’t handle, nor something that he desires to dedicate more consideration towards uncovering.He is certain that he will not like the answer.

* * *

A palace full of nobles and servants free to come and go at their leisure, yet still spies think it best to wander the halls at the darkest pitch of the night when it is the most conspicuous, like the ghouls Fabien is eager to transform them into to.

Spies — and the Chevalier, because of course. 

Fabien, twenty or so paces behind his mark, directs an aggressive hand motion at Chevalier, trying to wave him away. It doesn’t work. The Chevalier squints at him through the dark, swaying in place. The man is drunk. 

The cloaked figure that Fabien has been trailing passes the Chevalier and then pauses, turning to look and see what Chevalier is squinting so obviously at. Fabien has no choice but to rush forwards, eating up the distance between the Chevalier and himself. 

“Mon cher,” Fabien croons, careful to hide the realities of his voice, then shoves Chevalier against the wall and crushes their lips together. 

Chevalier freezes for a moment. His hands rise slowly towards Fabien’s face, threatening to dislodge the hood Fabien has draped over his head, and Fabien puts a stop to that instantly, catching hold of them in the air and slipping their fingers together. 

The spy stares at them from a few steps up the hallway. Fabien kisses Chevalier harder, deeper, putting all that he is into it, keeping his eyes closed and his ears open. He is just as drunk as Chevalier, ignorant to the world beyond the press of their lips, unseeing of the figure just to their right. It is a clandestine meeting between lovers, planned and entirely coincidental to whatever schemes the man is partaking in.

It works, and the spy continues on their way. Fabien keeps the kiss going until the spy turns the corner, exiting one hallway to the next, and it is finally safe for him to stop. 

He disengages himself from the Chevalier. For once in his life, the man is quiet, a rather stunned, dazed look tattooed across his face. Fabien, granting himself a moment of self-satisfaction for having caused it, takes off after his mark.

* * *

Whatever brewing events that might exist have settled themselves into an extremely unsatisfying stalemate. Certainly there are plans, he knows, but none that he might thwart. Some of them must have developed enough to qualify as plots, even, were Fabien in a generous mood to label them as such. Yet none of their perpetrators seem to be acting to progress them. The few that Fabien is able to catch are of lesser-worth, unable to give up valuable information even when tortured.

He is left in the awkward position of waiting for them to be acted upon, be it through more planning or, worse, an actual attempt on the King himself. 

Fabien hates this. He more than possesses the patience for it, but complacency breeds opportunity, as far as he is concerned, and that Fabien cannot stand. If he cannot react, then he must be proactive in his service. 

An idea occurs to him, sudden, and possibly ill-conceived. Still, that does not mean it isn’t worth trying. Anything would be better than this waiting game. 

Pushing himself off the wall from which he had been leaning, Fabien makes a circuit around the perimeter of the room. A luncheon, held to champion the successful completion of one of the palatial wings, the room ornate and packed to maximum occupancy, planned and overseen by no less than the Chevalier himself, by leave of the King. 

“Chevalier de Lorraine,” Fabien calls. Chevalier is stood just shy of the middle of the room, laughing his little blond head off. He turns at the sound of his name.

Fabien wastes little time in kissing him. 

Chevalier kisses back as one expecting such a thing might. His hands quickly raise to take Fabien’s face into between palms, and this time Fabien lets him. The point of it is to be seen, after all. Fabien settles his own hands at the Chevalier’s waist, one hand at his hip, the other pressed firmly into the small of his back, anchoring their lower halves together.

He slits his eyes to take a read of the room and finds few reacting, as Fabien expected. The small crowd of young nobles whom had been playing audience to the Chevalier’ have moved on now that he is otherwise entertained. Likewise, those closest to them carry on without paying much mind. Their kissing is hardly of note compared to what antics Chevalier himself has been prone to at events such as these, and lesser still than those of the King’s brother. 

It is, however, out of turn for Fabien, and that is what matters. 

Chevalier comes to his office the next day. Fabien is mildly surprised it took him this long. The Chevalier closes the door behind him, a first, and that has Fabien sitting taller in his chair.

“I’ve had five men at my rooms last night,” the Chevalier says. His tone is extremely petulant. “Not a single one of them _you_ , mind, but wouldn’t you know it, all any of them wanted to talk about was you.” 

It is as Fabien planned, then.

“What is it that you told them?” He hopes that Chevalier did not speak out of turn.

“I’m not an idiot,” Chevalier says, though he levels Fabien with a look that insinuates he suspects Fabien might be. “I told them that I fucked you into complete and absolute, utter devotion, and as such you are firmly wrapped around my finger.” He extends his pinky as if to illustrate his point

He steps further into the room and up to Fabien’s desk. He picks the cup of wine Fabien has been nursing and sniffs at it a few times before downing its contents in a single draw. “These idiots are all but falling over themselves to pull me in on their schemes. The almighty Fabien Marchal has developed himself a blindspot, haven’t you heard? Turns out that I’m it.”

* * *

The lesser schemes are first to be addressed. Powders, smuggled goods, any number of petty offenses that don’t much matter to Fabien, yet they satiate the King, which of course matters to Fabien very much.

In this same amount of time, the Chevalier de Lorraine has been found in various states of undress and coitus within the palatial grounds, M. Marchal serving as his partner in such matters. Fabien gives audience to his Majesty and conducts interviews to suspects alike with bruises placed high enough on his neck that even his cravat fails to cover them. 

They hold congress in private as much as they make a show of it in public. Fabien finds himself sneaking into Chevalier’s bed at odd hours of the night, extending as much fastidiousness to this as he might with any of his schemes. The whole point of this is to be seen, yet still here Fabien is, making use of the king’s stairways to slip between salons unseen. 

It would be strange for him to throw all caution to the wind, Fabien tells himself, and to the Chevalier as well, when he teases Fabien for it. 

Fabien is allowed happiness, surely. Buried inside Chevalier’s body, the other’s arms wrapped tight around him, hands pressing finger-tipped bruises into his shoulders as they pant into one another’s mouths, it certainly feels close enough to it, anyway.

* * *

It is Fabien’s hope that the eradication of lesser offenses will create enough general discontent to become a vacuum, one to be filled by opportunistic upstarts whom are not necessarily worthy of the task, but who mistakenly believe themselves to be so.

He is used to caring about the King, foremost, and then for himself. The both of them are high profile targets. It would take more effort than the average traitor posses to get them alone — or, in Fabien’s case, as he is alone more than he is not, caught out with his guard down. Too much risk, hardly enough reward. 

There are other ways to wound. 

Fabien is told what has occured after the dust has settled. He forgets himself and murders the assassin without asking a single question, pulling his sword the moment he crosses through the iron door of her cell. The guards watch on, shocked, lips twisted into frowns that stay firmly shut; clearly they remember themselves, even if Fabien cannot claim the same. His mind is on other things, wanting this settled quickly so that he may get to them. 

He does not knock when he reaches the Chevalier’s apartment. He passes through the sitting room to the open doors of the bedroom, unsure of what he will find there. Gossip spreads quick through the walls of the court. Fabien has heard fifteen different accounts of what befell the Chevalier de Lorraine. 

The man in question lays in his bed, the color of his face a pallor that the sheets would be envious of. It is the King’s doctor that sees to him. Fabien reasons that the wounds must have been as vicious as the worst of the rumors claimed to warrant such a thing. 

Fabien has to work his throat a few times before he is able to speak. “Leave us,” he says, once able. 

The doctor closes the door behind them as they exit the room. 

He sits on the chair beside the bed for a while, staring. Chevalier’s almost looks angelic like this. Fabien moves to sit on the edge of his bed, and plays with Chevalier’s hair, brushing it back from the angles of his face. 

Overcome by a wave of tenderness, he leans down and takes the Chevalier’s lips, kissing him lightly. When he pulls back, Chevalier is staring back him, looking pleased with himself. 

“I was aware that you were conscious, you know. You hardly look so beautiful when you’re truly asleep,” Fabien says, ignoring the Chevalier as he answers, “ _I’m sure you did,_ ” in a weak voice. “I am, however, rather impressed at how long you managed to keep still.”

“I was impressed with your bedside manner,” Chevalier replies, “but you have quickly divested me of that opinion.” With visible effort, he drags his arms out from under the blankets and lays his hands over his chest, one over the other. “Come, kiss me until I’m healthy again.”

Fabien very much doubts such a thing to be possible, but he can give the Chevalier this one indulgence. One kiss turns into two into three, the fourth carrying on without enough pause to determine the start of a fifth. To Fabien’s surprise, it is the Chevalier who eventually ends it. He casts his head down and to the side, so that when he speaks it is into the skin at Fabien’s throat. 

“Before the cunt stuck me like a pig, she said it was for taking from her the one good thing in this place. One would assume she meant the power. It certainly couldn’t have been over a man; I’ve slept with no other than you for nearly a month now.” 

“That is good to know,” Fabien says. To Chevalier’s unimpressed look, he clarifies, “The motives to her murder. I would know if you had bedded another, that is not news to me.” The lengths of their hair threaten to slip into his mouth, and he pushes them aside. “She died before I could properly interrogate her.” He does not explain how it was more his fault than hers. 

Chevalier sighs. “I can’t believe someone tried to kill me off this quick.”

An emotion settles deep and heavy into the pit of Fabien’s stomach, though he does not know its name. “I should not have involved you in this,” he says. “I made you into a target without considering the full range of consequence.” 

“Fabien,” the Chevalier says, voice laced with an emotion of which Fabien is equally ignorant. “The main regret that flashed through my mind was that there are still rooms in this godforsaken place that we have yet to congregate within.” 

It startles a laugh from him, that the Chevalier says such things in a voice with such heavy feeling. 

Then he stops laughing, because all is far worse than he thought.

* * *

Fabien goes to see the King. His request for a private audience is easily granted, though Bontemps lingers. Fabien stays quiet.

“Well,” his Majesty says. “Bontemps too, then?” Fabien inclines his head, and the King nods. “Leave us,” he orders. 

The affront spoiling Bontemps’ face brings a smirk to Fabien’s. His Majesty levels Fabien with a look, but says to Bontemps, “If I cannot trust M. Marchal, Bontemps, then all is well and truly lost, do you not think? Do as I say.”

Doors closed and decidedly alone, Fabien speaks. It seems prudent to get directly to the point. “I am no longer impartial when it comes to matters involving Chevalier de Lorraine.”

The King seems surprised. Fabien frowns. Gossip should have made its way back to him, by way of Bontemps, if no other. It’s worrying that he had no clue. “I would have alerted you to my feelings earlier, sire, had I known you were ignorant.”

“I suppose it is of no matter,” the King says. Fabien opens his mouth to refute this, for the King going unawares of any division of loyalties within his most inner of circles is most certainly a matter of the nation’s highest concern, but his Majesty waves him off. “You yourself have told me before any other could. Why is it, Fabien, that you tell me?”

“So that you may have someone keep an eye on myself,” Fabien says. 

The King levels him with a look that is commonly reserved for the likes of the Chevalier and his ilk, one that Fabien has never had directed at himself. It leaves him instantly and completely affronted. Nothing Fabien has ever said in his life has can near the dim-witted nonsense that regularly springs forth from Chevalier’s lips. 

“Come now, my dear Fabien,” the King says, as if Fabien were especially slow. “The Chevalier may be stupid enough to turn against his King, I will give you that, but even he knows better than to wrong you.” The King fetches a decanter from one of his side tables and pours himself a drink as a considering expression blooms onto his face. “No, this may be your most dastardly feat yet. There’s no turning on you, and few on this earth posses more fidelity to me.”

“Sire,” Fabien tries to say, though the King ignores him.

“To the Chevalier and yourself, may you have many happy returns.” His Majesty raises his cup in Fabien’s direction, and then drinks from it. “Though I do not envy you on that front. Although, my brother has shared that he is exceptionally gifted in bed, so much so that even I might be tempted. Perhaps I should be saying well done to you?”

* * *

Chevalier enters Fabien’s office without bothering to knock.

“What if I had been interviewing someone?” Fabien asks. 

He does not bother to look up from the note which content’s he is reading. Minor strife and agitations within the nobility has led the King to grant Chevalier domain over any and all powders distributed within Versailles, a happy compromise that ensures the King still reigns supreme over their collective happiness.

Someone has been selling them behind the Chevalier’s back, and Fabien is close to discovering the identity of their culprit, if not their motives for doing so.

“The screams would have warned me off, I’m sure.”

Fabien does not bother answering. Oftentimes, Chevalier speaks solely because he enjoys the cadence of his own voice and does not require one. 

“Fabien,” the Chevalier says. Fabien sighs, realizing that this is not one of those times, and turns his attentions to him. 

Resplendent and newly healthy, Chevalier continues, “I want to fuck on your desk.” 

“Come now,” Fabien says, because there is work to be done, and Fabien had known that to indulge the Chevalier was the worst manner of handling him, long before they’d even begun kissing. He does not need the distraction now, not when he is close to solving the task at hand. He certainly does not need the memory coming to him at some later time, when Chevalier is occupied with errands for the King and Fabien is left with nothing but recollections and the desk to keep his frustrated-self company. 

“From whom did you source the very letter which you are pouring over now?” Chevalier asks. They both know the answer to such questioning.

Fabien sighs. He sets the note and his magnifying glass both onto the floor for safekeeping, and begins to undo his cravat.


End file.
